


God Save the Queen

by HappeningInMyHead



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappeningInMyHead/pseuds/HappeningInMyHead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arranged Marriage AU. The third son of the King of England is arranged to marry the daughter of a French political adviser on the eve of World War II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! My first ever WestAllen/The Flash fic. I hope you enjoy. If you have any questions about rank, position, or anything else please let me know!
> 
> *slight change for anyone coming back: the year is 1939, not 1937*

ENGLAND | APRIL 1939

* * *

 

            “The people will not like it, David.” Henry rose from his desk and crossed to the window. He looked out at the gardens below and was filled with certain sadness. His wife had loved these gardens. What would she think of David’s proposal? What counsel would she give?

            “The people do not have to _like_ it,” David scoffed. He countered Henry’s motion and sat for the first time since their meeting had begun. “The people do not like much of anything these days. What will one more do?”

            “Easy for you to say,” Henry replied, not turning to face him, “you won’t have to deal with the backlash. How did we even begin discussing this? I thought you were here to talk about Poland.”

            “We have talked about Poland at length, my friend. The world keeps spinning and there are other matters to attend to. Now, Harrison is gone and I speak to you, not as the President of France, but as a friend,” David said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“ _This_ is more important than the potential invasion of Poland,” Henry countered.

“You know that is not what I meant. Stop deflecting. I have no idea why you are so concerned, Henry. My mother was Sikh and France got along just fine.” There was something close to an edge in David’s voice. Close, but not quite.

            “You are not royalty and your mother was far lighter than this girl, David. And France is a different place,” Henry added. He turned slightly toward him, but still did not look at him.

            “Yes,” David said, the edge of his voice becoming a little clearer, “a different place, but not entirely a better one. There is racism in France, still. My mother’s life was not easy there. The people, however, dealt with it.”

            “It will not stand here, David, I swear it. The people will revolt and that’s the last thing we need now.” He took out his pocket watch and checked the time. He had another meeting in 30 minutes. It was always so busy on the eve of war.

            “I did not realize you held the same values that your people do.” The edge in David’s voice was sharp and clear now, and Henry would not stand for such an accusation. Finally, he turned to face him.

            “How dare you, David? Do you not know me better than that?”

“Apparently, I do not. I never expected to meet such resistance on this subject from you. I see now you are just like the rest of your people. I see you hold their racist values in your heart as well.”

Henry knew, on some level, that this was a tactic. He knew David was saying these things to push him to accepting the offer. He knew, also, that he would fall for this tactic as he always did.

“I do not!” He was roaring now, slamming his fists onto his desk. “I deplore the values my people hold in regards to race. However, I must consider them before my own opinions, David. You should know that.” He turned to the window again pinching the bridge of his nose. _God, what would Nora say to him now?_

“If you will ignore the right path and take the easy one, Henry, then you are just as bad as the rest of them. The girl is a perfect lady. She has the manners of royal woman and the brains of her father. Her father is a good man—a trusted advisor. He is worried about what will become of her once he dies and he should be. A black woman on her own—he has every right to worry…. She is all the best of him. She is smart, Henry, and strategic. She would make as good a counselor as her father. You can trust her in your household and you can trust her with your son. Please, Henry. It is the least I can do for her after all her father has done for me.”

Henry sat down and hid his face in his hands. He knew. He had known all along what his decision would be.

“What’s the girls name again?” He looked at David and shook his head as he watched David try and fail to hide his smile at his victory.

“Iris,” David said and Henry could hear the happiness in his voice. “Iris West.”


	2. Chapter 2

ENGLAND | MAY 1939

* * *

 

            “Listen to me, all right?! I want daily updates on Adolf Hitler, do you hear me?! DAILY! If he so much as _looks_ in the general direction of Poland, I want to know about it. And you, Henry, you have got to be a face the people can rely on. You’ve got to go out there and make speeches: reassure them that all is well.”

            “Is it, Harrison? Is everything well?”

            “I’d be better able to answer that question if I knew what the bloody hell was going on in Hitler’s head!”

Barry could hear the Prime Minister arguing with his father and rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. Henry wrenched the door of his office open to see his youngest son standing there. “Jesus, is it 2’o’clock already?” He checked his pocket watch before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Harrison,” he called, turning back to look at the Prime Minister, “can we finish this later? Please? Come in, Bartholomew.”

            Barry groaned inwardly. His father only called him Bartholomew when he had something serious to discuss with him. Given the current situation across Europe, he was certain this would not be a pleasant talk.

            “Sit down, Bartholomew,” his father said, gesturing to a seat across from his own. His father was, for the most part, a kind and gentle man. It was only in times of great political tension that he hardened. Well, in times of great political tension and when the anniversary of Nora’s death came round.

            “All right, normally I would break this news to you softly, but I don’t have the time for that at the moment,” Henry said as he poured Barry a cup of tea. Barry grabbed the cup and began to take a sip. “I’ve arranged for you to get married next month.” Barry choked on his tea and began to cough and gasp for air.

            “Pardon, sir,” he asked, clutching his chest.

            “Yes, I know it’s a strange time for such things and there hasn’t been an arranged royal marriage in years, but David and I think that it could be a source of…joy? For the people? And—,”

            “Sorry, sorry, David? The girl is French?” Barry was really beginning to panic now. He was terrible at speaking French!

            “What? Yes, she’s French. Her father is a very trusted political advisor to David….” How would Henry break the rest to him? How would Barry respond?

            Barry stood from his seat and rubbed his hands across his face and through his hair. His eldest brother, Malcolm, always hated when he did that—said it made his hair unruly.

            “What’s her name? Do you have a photograph of her? What does she look like?” Barry was rapid firing his questions and wringing his hands. Henry hesitated before reaching into his desk and pulling out the photograph David had handed him. He handed it to Barry with the back up so that Barry could only see the caption scribbled on the back: _Iris Ouest. Ma fille. Mon ange._ Henry watched as Barry turned the picture over and ran his hand through his hair once more—further messing it up—his eyes bulging.

            “Jesus,” Barry breathed and Henry held his breath: waiting for the inevitable protest from his son.

            “She’s bloody gorgeous.”

FRANCE | MAY 1939

* * *

 

            Iris lived in a small room in a small house in a very large city. Still, her home was elegant—and much nicer than what many people of her complexion would ever have.

            There were people—people that looked like her—all across the world who had never even had a home to call their own.

            And here she was, lying on her bed in her beautiful, little home without a care in the world but to finish her book. There were people that looked like her that couldn’t even read. The thought tore at her. How could anyone be so cruel? To hate someone for the color of their skin?

            “Iris.” She turned toward the door to see her father and a smile broke out on her face. He returned her smile, but there was something different about him today. Something heavy.

            There was a constant heaviness to him now. The country was on the brink of war—all politicians felt the weight of that—but this was different. This heaviness didn’t sit on his shoulders the way it usually did. There was another reason for this weight.

“Is something wrong, papa,” she asked as she sat up straight on her bed. He sighed and sat in the roomy arm chair next to her bed. He reached out for her hand and she leaned over to place hers in his. He smiled a bit wider now, a bit brighter.

            “I have some news for you, baby, and…I’m not sure how you are going to take it.” He was not looking at her and that is how she knew that something was wrong.

            “Germany did not invade Poland did they!? Tell me David intends to send in troops.” Her father began to laugh and she grew indignant. “What!?”

            “Germany has not invaded Poland, but I will be sure to tell David to send in troops if that day comes. This is, perhaps, only mildly better than if Germany had invaded Poland.”

            “Well,” Iris said as she picked at a bit of lint on her skirt. “Do not dance around it. Come along and tell me.”

            “David has arranged a marriage for you.”

            Iris tried very hard to not yell at her father.

            “Who is it that I will be marrying,” she asked through clenched teeth and tight lips.

            “The third son of King Henry IX of England,” her father answered with the look that he always gave her whenever he told her something he knew she wouldn’t like.

            Iris tried _very_ hard not to yell at her father.

            Iris failed.

            “What the hell do you mean the ‘third son of King Henry IX of England’,” she yelled as she wrenched her hand away and stood from her bed.

            “Watch your language! I meant precisely what I said.” He rose as well and stood in front of her, mimicking her stance: legs far apart, hands on hips, chest leaning forward.

            “Well, it will not be happening!”

            “Yes, it will. And you will go to David and thank him for making you such a lovely match.”

            “How did David even manage this? He’s not royalty. And when was the last time there even was a royal arranged marriage in England?”

            “The last arranged marriage was in 1840, I believe but the next one will be in 1939,” he quipped.

“Have you any idea what the English are like?” She was glaring at him now.

            “They are pretty much like the French only their fashion sense is worse, their food is worse, and they are a bit more racist.” A silence fell then. It was thick and heavy and it was broken by their laughter.

            “I suppose I can do nothing to fight it, can I?” She flopped back down onto her bed and her father sat beside her.

            “No, dear, there is nothing to do.”

            “When shall we be married?”

            “Next month.” She groaned and covered her face.

            “That soon,” she asked, her voice muffled by her fingers. “Why such a rush?”

            “David thinks it may give the people something to celebrate.” Iris laughed at that and sat up to better look at him.

            “Well, David is wrong.” It was her father’s turn to laugh.

            “David is often wrong.” She smiled at him before bumping his shoulder with her own.

            “That’s what he has you for.”

            She rested her head on his shoulder and they sat there for a moment in silence. She wondered if he was as worried for her as she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the ranks of everyone! A couple of these characters haven't been introduced yet, but they'll be in the next chapter. As I add more characters I'll put their positions in notes at the end of chapters as well. If there are any other questions/comments I'd love to hear them!
> 
> Year: 1939  
> Setting: England [main] France [sub]  
> Characters:  
> Henry Allen, King of England—predominantly a figure head in regards to the war  
> David Sinclair, President of France, friend to Henry Allen [David Singh, he changed his last name so that he could rise to political power in France. He is still of color!]  
> Harrison Wells, Prime Minister of the UK  
> Malcolm Allen, heir apparent of England, Prince of Wales  
> Donald Allen, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cambridge  
> Bartholomew “Barry” Allen, Prince of Wales  
> Joseph “Joe” West, Political Advisor to David  
> Iris West, daughter of Joe West, betrothed to Barry


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One part of this chapter may be triggering because there's an allusion to a racial slur but it's never actually said. I'll most likely never say any slurs explicitly, but if I do I'll put a note about it at the beginning--the same goes for any other potentially triggering material.

ENGLAND | JUNE 1939

            They stood in the entry hall waiting for David to arrive when all absolute hell broke loose.

            Malcolm (being Malcolm) decided to provoke Barry. He was always so arrogant about being the first son and that arrogance infected the rest of his personality. He never once doubted that he would be king. He was tall (not taller than Barry, but still tall) and strong. His chest was broad; the lines of his face were sharp; his hair was blond and his eyes were blue and the girls went absolutely mad for him.

            He was, quite literally, the golden boy and he had never really liked Barry. Perhaps it was because he felt Barry had been their mother’s favorite. Perhaps it was because their father praised Barry for all the traits Malcolm saw as weakness or flaws. One thing was certain though: Malcolm was not fond of his youngest brother.

            Barry stood 6 feet and 2 inches tall (three precious inches taller than Malcolm and an unimportant four above Donald, his other brother). He was lean and muscular, but not broad. He had brains where Malcolm had brawn. He was handsome. With brown hair and green eyes the girls often found him a bit of a letdown when he actually began talking to them.

            They stood there in a perfect line from oldest to youngest with Donald standing between them.

            It was moments like these when Barry was sure Malcolm went out of his way to make him angry.

            “A black woman,” Malcolm chuckled to himself. “I cannot believe you are marrying a black woman.”

            “Shut it, Malcolm,” Barry said, straightening the cuffs of his jacket.

            “Oh, I’m _sorry_ , Bartholomew. I did not mean to offend you. Tell me, since you are so intelligent, can you recall what it is they call the blacks in America? My, what’s that word again?”

            When Malcolm finally decided to spit the word at Barry, all hope of a cordial greeting was lost.

            That is how Malcolm ended up with congealed blood all around his nose and a spot of it on his collar, Barry ended up with a budding black eye, a busted lip, and his hair standing unruly, Henry ended up with a massive headache and a vice-like grip on the bridge of his nose, and Donald ended up with a vaguely terrified expression on his face when David walked in followed by Joseph and Iris West as well as the rest of their party.

            David stopped at the sight of them and gave a pointed look towards Henry. Henry straightened and gave a curt smile and nod to David and his party before stepping forward.

            “Allow me to introduce my sons: Malcolm Charles Thomas Allen, Donald Christopher George Allen, and Bartholomew Henry Phillip Allen.” At the mentioning of their names, each of the boys stepped forward and bowed.

Iris and her father looked surprised at their current state to say the least.

            “This is my advisor, Joseph West, and his daughter, Iris Ann West.” Iris curtsied as David introduced her before extending her hand to Henry.

            “It is an honor to meet you, Iris,” Henry said with a bow.

            “The honor is all mine, your grace. To stand in such regal company is a privilege,” she replied.

            “I am sure it is,” Malcolm said, dabbing at his nose as it began to bleed anew, “it isn’t everyday someone of your…status is in the presence of royalty.” Iris opened her mouth to retort, but, before she could speak, Barry turned toward his brother.

            “You’re right, Malcolm. The Crown operates on a highly elitist system. You should work to fix the inequalities present in our society when you’re king.” He moved to speak directly to Iris, not giving Malcolm a second to respond. “I’m Bartholomew; it is my pleasure to meet you, Ms. West.” He smiled shyly then, “Je crois comprendre que nous allons voir beaucoup de l'autre.”

            Iris stared at him, slightly shocked and impressed. Before she could respond, Henry clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, “Bartholomew, why don’t you take Iris on a tour of the grounds while David, Joseph, and I speak privately.” Iris looked first to her father for approval before taking Barry’s offered arm and letting him lead her about the palace.

* * *

 

            “And, finally, these are your chambers,” he said with an awkward hand gesture. “I hope they are to your liking.”

            “It is,” god she couldn’t find the word she was looking for, “very good.” She looked at him and he looked slightly disappointed.

            “Oh, well, yes. I’ll just be….” He pointed towards the door and began to walk away.

            “Good is not the word I want to say,” she said. He turned toward her, then.

            “What do you want to say?” He stepped closer to her once more and she countered with a step back.

            “Merveilleux.” She hoped that he would understand her somehow. He considered for a moment and then smiled.

            “That sounds a lot better than good,” he grinned. “Merve-ill-ew. Quite nice.” She laughed, then, at his mispronunciation of the word. “What,” he asked, almost indignant. “Did I say it wrong?”

            “Yes, you did, but not too bad. You are still learning.” She was the one to turn away this time but she felt him stay. She felt the intensity of his eyes on her. She felt that he wanted to say something and she knew that he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what to say to her.

            “Your brother,” she would be the one to break the silence then, “the blond one.”

            “Malcolm.” What was that in his voice? Was it hatred? Was it sadness? Was it pity?

            “Yes,” her voice was soft, he wondered if everything about her was soft. He pushed the thought away. “Malcolm.”

            “I am sorry,” they all lived there: in his voice. The hatred, the sadness, the pity. They mixed together. One could not survive without the others. “For what he said today.”

            “You do not need to apologize for his actions.” She almost turned to face him.

 He wished she had.

God, she was beautiful.

“He is the one who hit you. The one who busted your lip and made your eye black and swollen.”

            There was a long pause then.

            “Yes.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I hit him first.”

            She turned to face him then.

            “Why?”

            She thought the silence would consume them.

            Barry opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a gaggle of maids scurrying in to introduce themselves to the lady they’d be serving. Iris looked away from Barry to smile at the women and when she looked up he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

ENGLAND | JUNE 1939

* * *

 

            He couldn’t stop looking at her during the ceremony.

            In several years, when asked by their children to recall their wedding day, he would spend twenty minutes describing the details of her dress—the lace covering the bodice and the exposed top of her chest up to her neck, the buttoning trailing down her back, the thick, lacy train that trailed behind her, the way the white fabric shone against her skin—but nothing else from the ceremony would stick with him.

            She was beautiful. Unequivocally. Irrevocably.

            He would remember his heart pounding in his chest as she walked in and the impatience that filled him before he could finally look at her. He was bound by tradition to not turn and face her as she walked down the aisle, but, God, he wanted to. When she finally reached him a smile broke out onto his face at the sight of her. He truly could not stop looking at her. She entranced him. Even during the prayers he proceeded to glance at her though he tried to keep his head down.

            Iris, on the other hand, could hardly look up from her flowers. She would remember the knots in her stomach and her heart beating faster than it ought to. She would remember staring at the laces on his shoes and the white, satin tips of her own peeking out from underneath her dress. She would remember staring at the ring on her finger. She would remember staring at the decorations on his military jacket and wondering if he would be going off to war once it finally came.

            They would remember standing atop the balcony waving to the crowd below and the exhilaration of their first kiss.

            She would remember the way his lips felt against her own. His lips were soft but his kiss was hard—not forceful, but insistent—as though he was trying to tell her something. She would remember the way his hand felt at the small of her back as he brought her towards him and the way he cupped her face once she was within reach, his fingers meeting at the back of her head.

            She would remember how, for a brief moment, she felt secure.

            He would remember the way that she tasted. The taste of coffee lied underneath the bitter taste of her lipstick. There was something sweet, too, that he couldn’t quite place—vanilla maybe—and something else that he couldn’t even describe as sweet or bitter. And he wasn’t completely sure, but he thought that third indescribable taste was just the bliss of kissing her.

            After all the ceremony and fanfare, they ended up back at the palace alone in their new shared chambers.

            They stood, awkwardly, next to one another for a moment merely looking about the room. Iris was the first to turn away. She set down her flowers, still clenched in her hand, on a nearby table before grabbing a nightgown from the closet and disappearing into the bathroom.

            Barry stood there for a moment and stared at the door before crossing to the table that her flowers now laid on and lifting them to his face.

            White calla lilies: gentle and mournful—white teardrops the size of a palm. He could see why she liked them.

            He returned them to their place on the table before changing into his pajamas. As he laid his suit out on the small loveseat for the cleaning staff to retrieve in the morning, he heard the door to the bathroom click open behind him. Iris stood in the doorway of the bathroom in a peach, satin nightgown and Barry’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. The light coming from the bathroom surrounded her and made it look like she had a halo about her.

            They stared at one another for a moment before she flicked off the lights and crossed to the bed.

            He tried not to stare at her as she did so, but he couldn’t help it.

            He followed her and they sat there on opposite sides of the bed, above the covers.

            “If you want I can um…,” his voice was rough from disuse—there hadn’t been much room for conversation during the day, “I can uh…sleep on the couch or in one of the other rooms for a few nights….”

            “That’s all right.” Her voice, too, was quiet. “This is your home. I will not put you out of it.”

            He slid his hand slowly across the bed to rest on top of hers, his fingers slightly curling between hers.

            “This is your home too, now.”

            “Is it?” She didn’t mean for him to hear her reply.

            “Yes.” His answer was like lightning—not an ounce of hesitation. “This _is_ your home now and I shall not make you uncomfortable in it.”

            They sat there for a moment in silence, their fingers slowly intertwining.

            “I’ll sleep on the couch for tonight,” he said.

            She let him go; although she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him to.

            “Good night, Iris.” His voice was distant and gentle.

            “Good night, Barry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know it's very short. I wrote and rewrote this chapter and I could never quite get it to where I wanted it to be. I promise that Chapter Five will not only be longer, but the plot will start to pick up and their feelings for each other will become more...evident. I have some fun (and smutty) things in mind for their relationship and A LOT in mind for the plot. Stick with me, guys! It'll be fun, I promise.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this chapter is VERY long in comparison to others and, you may have noticed, that I changed the rating of this story from Mature to Explicit. That's because, as I wrote this chapter, it got a bit away from me and well...I figured Explicit was maybe a better rating. Enjoy!

ENGLAND | JULY 1939

* * *

 

            Iris liked to watch him in the mornings. He would always scurry about their room looking for things with this concentrated look on his face she found absolutely hilarious. Sometimes, he’d be in the middle of getting dressed when he’d suddenly remember something he needed to do or find and he would walk around with his shirt hanging open. Iris would never admit it, but she liked those mornings best. She liked peeking at him when he didn’t know and admiring him. She always knew when he was staring at her, mainly because he did it so often and unabashedly, but she preferred secret admiration—furtive glances that he was never quite sure were actually for him. He was handsome, not in the obvious way that men are handsome, but in a more subtle way—the kind of handsome you have to pay attention to see.

            She liked looking at him on the mornings where he was so rushed that he neglected to shave and a bit of stubble began to spot his face. He caught her staring at him one morning when he was in such a hurry that he was rushing about the room with his chest fully exposed, his hair messy, and stubble on his face. He stopped dead in his tracks as she looked at him and blushed so red Iris had to try very hard not to laugh. He sputtered out a quick good morning before running into the bathroom to tidy himself up.

            They were growing to like each other. They talked more often and more animatedly. They were beginning to learn things about one another. Barry now knew that Iris had at least three cups of coffee in the morning and the first one needed to be black to get her going. Iris now knew that Barry would flat out refuse to drink coffee unless it was nearly equal parts coffee and sugar. There were smaller things, too. She noticed how he would always rub the back of his neck when he was nervous or stressed. He noticed how she would spin her wedding ring around her finger whenever she was thinking. He still slept on the couch, but they could both feel that they were edging slowly closer to sharing their bed and more. They’re touches began to linger. Their stares became more charged.

            The first time they kissed after their wedding was almost an accident. She was standing in their closet in her robe as she stared at her clothes trying to decide what she wanted to wear. He came up behind her to tell her he’d see her later that evening and she just turned and kissed him goodbye—it was almost a reflex. Every now and then, he would kiss her and she would ignore all the nerves she had about possibly loving him. The feeling of his hand on her waist as he bent down to kiss her made it easy to forget her nerves. One morning he had grabbed her by her hips and meant to pull her into his lap, but Iris (deciding to take a risk) straddled him instead. They stayed like that for a while, kissing lazily. Every few minutes, Barry would test her with a small shift—not quite a thrust, but almost—of his hips against her and she would respond with a soft grind against him.

            Iris was beginning to be happy here. Not happy _here_ , as in England and living in the palace, but happy _here_ with Barry. She liked waking up and knowing he would be there every morning. She liked returning from her daily duties to find him already there and preparing for dinner. She liked how constant he was in her life. She was beginning to want this life that had been planned for them: this simple life with two simple people that would lead to a simple love.

            However, she was still hesitant about wanting this. The people of England weren’t very vocal in their dislike that there was a black woman married to the third person in line for the throne, but that dislike was still very present. True, there were some people that didn’t care, but there were a lot more people that didn’t care but were too focused on the coming war to really say anything. Iris was sure that once the political tension clamed, all hell would break loose for them.

            She was slowly starting to admit to herself that she not only wanted to be here with Barry, but she wanted more than the occasional kiss. She wanted him in the way that a wife wants her husband with an aching need between her legs.

            The floodgates broke one morning in early July, Iris woke up to hear the shower running (she will admit that she was impressed with the fact that nearly every bedroom had a shower considering they were just becoming commonplace, but that’s beside the point). She rolled over in bed to check the time and was more than a bit irritated to see that it wasn’t even 6:30 yet. She decided that she would try to go back to sleep and it was _just_ as she’d gotten comfortable in bed that she heard it.

            A moan.

            Her eyes shot open as she laid there still wrapped in the covers. She waited for a moment, listening and then _Oooooh_ there it was again. She sat up in bed and debated as to what she should do next. She knew that she _should_ lie back down and try to go back to sleep and definitely not investigate what was happening in that bathroom. However, that wouldn’t be very ‘her’ now would it? She decided, against her better judgement, to investigate; after all, where was the fun in ignoring whatever was happening behind those double doors?

            This was, perhaps, the most exciting thing that had happened to her since she arrived in this god-forsaken place two months prior.

            Iris jumped out of bed and pulled her robe tight around her body before tiptoeing toward the double doors of the bathroom. As she got closer, the moans became louder and Iris noticed that the doors weren’t completely shut. She positioned herself at an angle, but still couldn’t see what exactly was happening in there. She edged one of the doors open just enough that she could stick her head in and see what was happening and when she did her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

            Barry was standing there, the shower curtain pulled back so that Iris could see him unimpaired save for the steam. He was bracing his weight against the shower wall with one hand while the other was wrapped firmly around his cock and pumping at a slow, even pace. He moaned again and Iris ducked out of the bathroom.

            She stood with her back against the wall, her chest heaving and her eyes wide. Watching Barry had caused something warm to pool low within her—that ache she was becoming familiar with—and she closed her eyes at the feeling. It both exhilarated and terrified her. Iris had had boyfriends, nothing serious but she had had her first kiss and many more. She was versed in the art of kissing, and rather good at. Sex, on the other hand, was more of a mystery to her. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t have an interest in sex as it was that she didn’t have an interest in having sex with the boys she knew. Many, not all, but many, of them had been so nervous to kiss her that she feared they’d be just as hesitant in bed. Others were just flat out boring; with some, their relationship never reached the point where sex even became a potentiality. One summer, she stayed with a friend who tried to tell her all about giving yourself pleasure. Iris tried it every now and again, but oftentimes only ended up more frustrated.

            But now she was married. The marriage was arranged, yes, but she was married all the same and marriage meant having children and having children meant having sex. Had she really just seen him…pleasuring himself? And had it really excited her as much as it had. She decided to look again and edged her head back through the open door to peer at him from her safe distance by the door.

            His eyes were closed as he focused and his mouth hung open lazily. His arm was pumping faster now and his breath was coming in shallow little gasps. Every now and then he would mutter to himself. _Fuck. Yes. God, yes._ His moans were coming from deep in his throat and were longer, more impatient. Iris swallowed thickly as she watched him and let one of her hands trail up her stomach to hold and knead one of her breasts. Barry leaned forward then, pressing his arm to his forearm and leaning heavily on the wall. He was breathing hard now and his moans were less separated, coming in longer streams. He stopped pumping with his hand and began thrusting his hips wildly, desperately and Iris almost whimpered at the sight. At this point, she didn’t think she could stop watching him if she wanted to. She was mesmerized with the lines of his chest and the flexing muscles in his arms. She watched the rivulets of water curl down his body and was suddenly jealous that they got to touch him and she did not. She watched as a drop of water spun its way down his chest only to get lost in the thick patch of hair at the base of his shaft. She couldn’t help but wonder what he would do if her mouth followed the same path, what he would do if she took him in her mouth the same way he took himself in hand. She watched his hips thrust quickly and wildly until he stilled and came with a pleasured groan. It was then that she looked at his face and watched as he shut his eyes even tighter, tossed his head back, and groaned in such pleasure that Iris envied him and his release. As he began to slow his breathing, Iris came back to her senses and ducked out of the bathroom and returned the doors to how they were before she entered.

            She sat on the small loveseat in the center of their chambers and waited, for what she wasn’t quite sure but she waited all the same. She decided to read the paper as she waited and leafed through the daily paper already set out on the table before her. She was in the middle of an article analyzing Italy’s recent annexation of Albania and what it meant for the future of Europe when she heard the water shut off. She tried to focus on the paper and act calm and collected, but she ended up reading the same line over and over again unable to concentrate on its meaning. When she heard the door click open her head snapped up to look at him.

            God, she wanted to get up right then and leap into his arms. She wanted to kiss him and have him kiss her back so fully she couldn’t remember her own name. She wanted him to touch her and taste her and make her _his._ She wanted, in that moment, to truly become his wife. There were so many conflicting things bottled up inside of her. “ _Who gives a damn what anyone thinks,”_ she thought, “ _I want him and if he wants me as well, who can stop us now?”_

            “Oh,” he sounded surprised, but only a bit, “you’re up early.”

            “Yes, I was um…,” she searched for a reason other than ‘I heard the shower running and then you masturbating which made it very difficult to sleep’ as to why she would be up this early. “I uh…had some trouble sleeping last night and woke up a bit earlier because of it.”

            “I hope I didn’t wake you,” he smiled softly at her, almost as though he knew she’d been watching him, as he padded over to their closet to change his clothes. Iris was glad he was out of the room so that he couldn’t see her shocked expression.

            “No,” her voice was abnormally high as she spoke, “no, you didn’t. Do not worry about it.” She looked to her right and saw that the doors to their closet were cracked just as the doors to the bathroom had been and she could just make him out as he dropped his robe to the floor and stood there naked as he decided what to wear. She averted her eyes and wondered to herself if he _ever_ closed doors all the way. He came out dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. A smile threatened to break out on her face at the sight of him so she instead to turned her face back to the paper. He came up behind her and leaned over her across the back of the loveseat.

            “What are you reading,” he asked as he moved his face closer still to her own. She turned toward him and started slightly to see how close his face was to her own.

            “An article about the annexation of Albania.” She tried to keep her tone even as she stared at him. He watched her for a moment before a small smile broke out onto his face.

            “Sounds interesting.” She wasn’t sure but she thought he was staring at her lips.

            “It’s not. The reporter has no idea what he’s talking about. I could’ve written a better article.” She tested him by licking her lips when she was done speaking and she watched as bit his lower lip in response.

            She was sure now: he was definitely staring at her mouth. It would be so easy to kiss him from here. All she’d have to do is lean forward and….

            “What do you have planned for the day,” his voice was suddenly husky as he spoke to her and she smiled a bit to think she had this effect on him.

            “Not much. I was going to write a couple letters to some French dignitaries and maybe meet with the French Ambassador.” Now, with him leaning over her with hooded eyes and a soft smile playing at his lips, she didn’t think she could look away just as she couldn’t when she had watched him pleasure himself not an hour earlier.

            “Come on a walk with me, then.” She stared at him for a moment before she considered her answer. She nodded slightly before letting herself smile at him.

            After a quick shower in which she did not masturbate and Barry did not secretly watch her from the door, Iris dressed in her favorite yellow dress (one she had to buy with her own money and without her father’s knowing when they were still in France because it showed off her curves and Joseph West was NOT a fan) and they left.

            Barry led her through the palace and down several stairs before they reached their destination: the gardens. They walked leisurely through the rows of flowers and shrubbery in silence. At one point, he picked a small handful of pink hydrangeas from their bunch and placed them behind her ear. She smiled at him before clasping his upper arm with both her hands and letting him lead her about the gardens. He led her to a fountain in the center of the gardens and they sat next to each other on the edge.

            “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m sorry we didn’t get to go on a honeymoon,” he said as they sat down, “It’s just, with everything going on in….”

            “No, I understand,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively. He caught her hand and held it in both of his.

            “I promise when all of this is over and the world has gone back to normal I will take you on the most wonderful honeymoon.” She smiled at him softly and stared at their hands before slowly pulling hers away from his. “Something is wrong.” He pulled his hands back to rest in his lap as he stared at her. “Tell me.”

            “You should know that I am not easily frightened, Mr. Allen,” she tried to smile at him and play coy but she felt it falter on her face.

            “What’s frightening you?” She felt him rest his hand on her knee, some of his fingers finding their way beneath her dress.

            “This,” she sighed closing her eyes and motioning toward his hand, “this is frightening me.” She stood up and began to pace around the garden.

            “What are you talking about, Iris,” he stayed where he was and watched her from his seated position.

            “I’m talking about being here; being in this country, in this palace, in your bed every night.”

            “Our bed,” he corrected.

            “Fine, being in _our_ bed every night,” she said exasperatedly.

            “Well, what frightens you about it,” he questioned sounding almost defensive.

            “The fact that the people of England don’t want it and that I….” She stopped herself and stood there staring at him. He stood slowly and took a step towards her.

            “You… _what_ , Iris?” She was staring at him and he was so close: not even a step away from her. The courage her father always said was in her came back to her then and she finally did what she had wanted to do all morning and closed the space between them and kissed him. Not the chaste and simple kiss of their wedding day, but one full of passion. She flung her arms around his neck and drew him down to her. He stood there utterly shocked for a moment before he came to his senses and wrapped his arms about her waist to lift her off her feet and hold her to him. She bit and sucked at his bottom lip and he moaned for her just as he had in the shower that morning. The thought of it made her heart race and she edged her tongue into his mouth in the hopes of drawing out more moans from him.

            He set her back down and his fingers stuttered at her waist. She pulled away from him to speak.

            “Barry….” Her voice was breathy as she spoke to him and the sound caused him to harden a bit. “Barry, I want you to touch me.” She took one of his hands in her own and pulled it up to her breast as she suckled at his neck.

            “Jesus, Iris,” he groaned as he began kneading her breast through her dress. It suddenly occurred to him where he was and he took her hand in his to lead her back into the palace. “Not here,” he whispered into her ear.

            They darted through the palace hallways like teenagers. Every now and then Iris would pull him to the side and take a long drag of a kiss before he began pulling her back to their chambers. When they were finally on the hallway where their room was, they met with a slight obstacle: Malcolm.

            “Well, look who it is,” he began.

            “Oh, sod off, Malcolm,” Barry interrupted as he pulled a laughing Iris into their room and shut and locked the door behind them. He spun them so that her back was against the door and then his hands were on her. He grabbed her breasts over her dress as he used his knee to part her legs and plant himself firmly between them. She reached out and unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way before pulling it off of him and stroking her hands down his chest. He moaned into her mouth and began to grind his hips against her and she could feel his hardness even through the layers of clothing between them. He began unbuttoning her dress and she pulled away from the wall so that he could get it off of her with ease. As he began to suckle at her neck and mess with the fasten of her bra, she placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away slightly.

            “Barry,” he moaned at the way she sounded as she said his name and kissed her quickly, “I need to tell you something.”

            “And what’s that,” he asked as he began to kiss and suck just under her jawline.

            “I, _merde_ , I saw you…this morning…in the shower,” she was panting now as he continued to grind against her.

            “I know,” he said as he moved back to kissing her.

            “What,” she was moaning now as his hands slid around to grab her bum firmly.

            “I heard you come in,” he replied as he continued sucking at the spot on her neck. While she was standing there, an idea came to her.

            “Let me return the favor, then.” That got his attention and he stopped and pulled back to look at her.

            “What?”

            “Let me return the favor.” She took his hand and led him over to the bed. She pulled a chair up and placed it at the foot of the bed and pushed him down into it. He watched her, dumbfounded, as she climbed onto the bed. She reached behind her and unfastened her bra all the while staring into Barry’s eyes. She tossed the bra aside and smiled at Barry’s sharp intake of breath at the sight of her. She slid her hands up to her chest and began kneading her breasts. She played with her nipples, pinching them until they were sensitive peaks before sliding her hands down to her stockings. She released the fastens that kept them attached to her underwear to keep them from slipping and slowly slid each stocking down before removing it along with her heels. She then slid her hands back up along the inside of her thighs and took in a shaky breath. The way he was watching her made her feel not only sexy, but powerful. He looked like a starving man come to feast, like a religious man come to pray.

            “Do you want to see me touch myself,” she placed her hand over her center above the fabric, “over? Or,” she began to slip her fingers under the fabric of her underwear when Barry interrupted her.

            “Take them off.” He sounded almost choked as he spoke and he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She smiled at his reaction before rising up on her knees and hooking her fingers in the sides of her underwear and sliding them slowly down. She watched his face as he stared at her body and smiled to herself. Once the underwear was off, she tossed them aside like she had her brassiere before sitting back and spreading her legs so that he could see her.

            “Fuck,” he gasped at the sight of her and she smiled. Any doubts she’d had about this flew out the window then. She parted her folds for him before dragging a lazy finger through her wetness. She repeated the motion a few times before letting out a slight sigh. She watched as Barry’s cheeks reddened and he adjusted himself in his trousers. She moved her hand up and began circling her clit. As she applied more pressure, she moaned and her back arched off of the bed as her eyes closed for a moment. She continued like that for a while took pleasure, not only in her own touches, but in knowing that he was sitting enraptured at the end of the bed. Finally, she slipped a single finger within herself and moaned so high and sweet that Barry cursed. She pumped the single finger for a moment before slipping in another and whimpering at the sensation. She wondered to herself, if two of her slim fingers felt this nice, what it would feel like to have _him_ within her. She had seen him this morning in the shower and he was significantly longer and thicker than her fingers were. The thought of him inside her, stretching her and filling her up, made her wail and pump her fingers at a faster pace as the want for her pleasure increased. Her eyes were closed and her head turned into the pillows, but she heard some rustling at the foot of the bed. She felt his hand close around her wrist as he pulled her hand away from herself. She turned to look at him as he sucked her fingers into her mouth and rubbed his dick through his trousers. Once he had licked her fingers clean, he knelt before her and placed his head between her thighs. He licked her with the flat of his tongue and groaned at her taste. She bucked her hips against his face causing him to look up at her with a wicked smile as he held her hips in place. He closed his mouth around her clit and began to suck. It was then that Iris screamed (she never thought she’d be one to scream in bed, but Barry did something to her) and she fought his hold on her hips as she tried to reach her pleasure. He removed one of his hands from her hips to place his finger between her folds and slowly enter her. She cried out as he began thrusting his finger inside of her, when he entered a second she went silent for a moment. She finally let out a long and pleasured moan that faded into whimpers. She had never felt this good before, this close to release. He began thrusting his fingers more rapidly within her and sucking more fervently at her clit until finally— _finally—_ she came with a scream of _yes, yes, YES_ and a series of shudders throughout her entire body. When she finally came down, Barry removed himself from the apex of her thighs and stared down at her as her chest rose and fell rapidly and her eyes slowly began to flutter open. She looked up at him and smiled and he grinned back at her. He leaned down over her and kissed her hard on the mouth. For some reason, it delighted her that she could taste herself on his lips.

            “I have wanted to do that,” he was breathless as he rested his forehead against hers, “for such a long time.”

            “Really,” she was a bit surprised at his statement.

            “You have no idea,” he chuckled as he leaned down to kiss her once more. “God, you taste so good.” He braced his weight on his forearms and lowered his body to hers so that they were chest to chest. His length was pressed against her thigh; she smiled knowing that he was hard because of her. She reached down and grabbed hold of his belt buckle, unfastening it with deft hands.

            “Iris West, I swear you’ll be the death of me,” he sighed as she slid her hand into his trousers to hold him in her hand.

            “Iris _Allen_ ,” she corrected with a smile. She then pushed his trousers and pants down over his hips and thighs to reveal his cock to her. She bit her lip and leaned up to kiss him before he pulled away to pull his pants the rest of the way off. He repositioned himself between her thighs. She reached her hand down to grasp him and positioned him at her entrance. His breathing became more labored as he slowly began to enter her. Her jaw dropped open and she gasped as he went deeper and deeper within her. Her back pulled up off the bed and her chest pressed against his. Once he was completely in her, he stilled for a moment before thrusting. He looked at her as she began to relax and when she nodded, he began his thrusts. He started out slow and even, but her moans and pleas led him to harder, more sporadic thrusts. As he moved within her, filling her with every thrust, he rested his forehead to the side of hers so that he could whisper into her ear.

            “My beautiful wife,” he said, “God, I’ve wanted this for so long.” She would moan for him with near every thrust and it did little but urge him on.

            “Barry,” she gasped at one point, “please. Harder.” He obeyed her request and took her hips in his hands rising slightly onto his knees to get better leverage and thrust hard into her. He placed a hand under neck and pulled her up before sitting down so that she now sat with her legs around his hips. He continued to use her hips as leverage and Iris began grinding against him from this new position. He kissed her neck and nipped at her collar bones and she whined as her climax avoided her. He moaned as she twisted her hips against his and the sound made her whimper as she repeated the motion.

            “Fuck,” he muttered against her chest. “You feel so fucking good, Iris. You’re so tight.”

            “Barry,” his name was little more than a choked whimper.

            “Come on, love. I wanna see you come for me. I wanna hear you yell my name. Can you do that? Can you scream for me?” He thrust even harder and placed a hand between them to circle her clit and then she was coming again—her head thrown back as she screamed his name. He felt her pulse around him and he came with a swear and her name as a prayer on his lips.

            He collapsed next to her and pulled lazily out of her. He extended an arm to grab her about the waist and pull her body against his own. She hummed happily as she turned so that they were face to face. He smiled before kissing her nose and she giggled before peppering kisses down his neck and across his collarbones.

            They stayed there, curled around each other, for most of the day. It was one of the last peaceful ones they would have for a while.


	6. Chapter 6

ENGLAND | AUGUST 1939

* * *

 

            “God fucking dammit!” Barry sat still and silent as his father brought his hands down on his desk. There was a pounding in his ears. He barely heard Malcolm chuckle from the other end of the table. Their father looked slowly up at his eldest son with something close to a grimace on his face. “You think this is funny, do you?” Malcolm sobered himself before leveling a look at his father.

            “I just don’t see why you’re so upset, father. What’s the worst this little agreement could do,” Malcolm reclined in his chair with a smug look on his face.

            “The worst it could do? This ‘little agreement’ between Germany and the Soviets could lead us all to war!”

            “And? Let war come, father. I’m more than ready to face the Germans.”

            “Oh, shut up, Malcolm,” Donald muttered under his breath.

            “What was that, Donnie,” Malcolm turned his icy gaze on his younger brother—a challenge Donald didn’t accept. “That’s what I thought. As I was saying, who gives a shit if it leads us to war or not? I’ve been waiting for this day for years.”

            “Are you absolutely mad, Malcolm,” their father muttered as he stared at his son. “Do you truly thirst for this war?”

            “War is where men can truly prove themselves to be strong or weak, brother. I thirst for the weak to be weeded out.”

            “Even if the weak are your people,” Barry asked, though he did not look at his brother. There was a lump in his throat, a beating in his head, the only thing he could think was _war, war, war._ Then Iris. God, Iris. How was he going to tell Iris

            “They will not be weak. I will not allow them,” Malcolm said cockily.

            Just then, their father burst into a coughing fit. He reached for his handkerchief, already stained with blood from earlier that day, and held it to his face. Barry moved to steady him as he swayed in place but Henry put up a hand to stop him.

            “Leave,” Henry sputtered. “All of you please.” They filed out silently, Malcolm still with his calm cockiness. Barry shut the door behind him and lingered in the hall.

            Their father had been sick for months now. They weren’t sure what was causing the sickness and they never explicitly said he was sick, but they knew. He was getting weaker every day. The coughing fits were coming more frequently. Deep down Barry knew what was coming. He just didn’t like to think on it.

            The first thing Barry did was slip into broom cupboard. His breathing began to come quick, quick, quick and he could feel his pulse across his entire body. He was hot—so hot—open the door. His hand reached the handle and gripped before releasing quick, quick, quick. He clasped his hands tightly over his mouth and tried—tried hard—not to scream. _WAR. WAR. WAR._ It pounded like a drum in his head. _IRIS. IRIS. IRIS._ He could feel her rushing through his veins. The tears began to sting his eyes but he refused to let them fall. Barry raked his fingers through his hair and tried to control his breathing.

War is coming. War is coming. War is coming.

Iris.

* * *

 

When he made his way back to the chambers he shared with his wife, he found her talking on the telephone in very rapid French. His hand began to shake again with nerve as he listened to her voice lilt through the air. He caught a word here and there, but for the most part it was lost on his ears. He saw an open box of macaroons on the table in front of her and reached in to pick up the one she’d gotten half way through. He stuffed it in his mouth and smirked at her as she admonished him with a light slap to his thigh. She stopped speaking as the person on the other line took over the conversation and he bent to kiss her forehead.

            “How has your day been,” he whispered against her cheek. She pointed to the phone and some paper on the table before rolling her eyes. Barry nodded. His day had put him in a similar mood. He left her to her talk—he needed a shower and fresh clothes _desperately_. It had been a long day, so terribly long, and all he wanted to do was curl up with a cup of tea, a good book, and his wife.

            Things were still…strange between them at times. The sex was wonderful, but infrequent. They were still a bit uncomfortable around each other and having sex really only came during truly intimate moments which—due to their unfamiliarity—were few and far between. They were getting closer, though. With every word and every casual kiss he could feel them getting closer to where they should (and could) be.

            When he finally left the bathroom dressed in fresh, cotton sleeping trousers and nothing else, Iris was off the telephone and rubbing slow, persistent circles into her temples.

            “I guess that answers my question of how that conversation went,” he teased. She opened one of her eyes to look at him, a small smile spreading across her face.

            “How was your day, Mr. Allen?” She stood from her seat on their couch and began undressing before him. He stared at her for a moment before drawing his attention back to picking a book from the shelf.

            “Well, it was…” How could he tell her that war was all but declared? How could he tell her that he’d likely be deployed in a matter of weeks? How could he tell her marriage could end before it had a chance to get truly started?

            Barry felt her hand on his sides before sliding to rest on his chest, one resting against his heart and the other atop his stomach. She turned her cheek against his back and breathed with him for a moment before whispering _I know_. He broke then. The tears he’d been holding back before came rushing forth as he slipped through her hold to land on his knees. He turned to lean his back against the shelf and welcomed her as she straddled him. Iris folded herself around him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and burrowed her head into the crook of his neck. They sat like that for several minutes, their arms around each other and the only sound Barry’s sobbing. He felt something hot and wet against his neck and pulled her face away to see that she, too, was crying. He chuckled a bit at how pathetic they must look before leaning his forehead against hers while keeping her face in his hands.

            “Please,” she whispered, “please…” Barry wasn’t sure what she was asking and Iris wasn’t either. Yet, somehow, they both understood everything that could follow.

            _Please don’t leave me._

_Please don’t die._

_Please let me know you love me too._

            He wiped her tears away and kissed her forehead. “Okay.” He kissed her cheeks. “Okay.” He kissed her everywhere.

            “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I am so sorry this took like 856 years to be posted.  
> 2\. I am so sorry this is so short.  
> 3\. I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK LIKE 856 YEARS TO BE POSTED!!! After the last chapter I sort of hit a dead end because I knew where I wanted the story to go but not so much their relationship. I simultaneously felt like that was the right point for them to consummate the relationship and also like I'd rushed it so I struggled with that a bit but I'm back babies! Let's do this!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update again! Very soon after the last one I was in Oregon for two weeks without my computer and then when I got back school started and I just got so caught up in everything. To make up for it, I wrote a bit of smut and plot development. I hope you all enjoy.

ENGLAND | SEPTEMBER 1939

* * *

 

            Barry and Iris did not attend Henry Allen’s radio announcement that war had officially been declared. Instead, they stayed in bed eating waffles and hoping that no one would come to disturb them for as long as possible.

            Barry was going to be deployed. It was official.  They had a month…maybe less, maybe more. It was too early to really say at this point. Iris didn’t like to talk about it and would find any excuse to leave the room when it was brought up.

            He was her only ally.

            She smirked bitterly to herself. She’d be fighting her own war in this castle.

            Barry and Don were both to be deployed, Malcolm, however, was to stay behind. As the next in line for the throne, his life was not to be risked in war—as was the custom. He’d practically rioted when he was told he would stay in England. The other Allen brothers had been roped into the argument between Malcolm and their father, naturally, which meant that Iris heard all the details. She thought, at one point, that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that someone as good as Barry had to go off to something as terrible as war while someone like Malcolm got to stay behind.

            Barry pulled her out of her reverie with a kiss to her temple.

            “How are you, love?”

            It was only in their most tender moments that he called her that. She turned so that she was curled against the side of his body and looked up at him. She offered up a weak smile before planting a kiss to his chest. He chuckled—not a light happy chuckle, but something low in his chest full of want. Iris kissed his chest again before moving to his collar bone. Barry hummed, the sound moved through him and into her. She wanted to soak him up. He found her hips with his enormous hands and pulled her over top of him so that she was straddling his middle. She yelped as he repositioned her before settling into her new place. Iris pushed her hair behind her ears as she leaned down to kiss him.

            Barry slid his hands up her sides and along her back letting his fingers glide over the satin and lace lingerie he’d given her as ‘a late wedding present’. She’d joked with him that it was more of a present to him than it was to her and he had turned so red in the face she couldn’t help but laugh.

Now, he slipped his fingers into the waistband and began to tug underwear down her legs. She wiggled her hips and moved away from him to help him along in pulling it off her legs. She moved to position herself over his hips and started to remove his sleeping trousers when he gripped her hips and jerked her further up his body. Iris met his eyes and saw a wicked gleam there.

Barry sat up briefly and bit chastely at her lip as he tossed the pillows off the bed. He laid back down, perfectly flat now, and took her hips in his hands once more to pull her up so that she was straddling his face. She hesitated for only a second before lowering herself towards his face. He did not hesitate—he never did—and he had her moaning almost immediately.

A friend of hers from back home in France had been absolutely shocked when Iris had told her that he liked doing this so much. Linda had written: I do not know how you managed to be so lucky! Most men (or at least the ones I have been with) need to be hassled into performing what should be considered nothing short of an art form. Who would have thought Prince Bartholomew would be such a willing volunteer.

 _Yes, I suppose I am quite lucky_ , she thought. Barry began sucking at her clit in earnest causing Iris to buck and grind her hips against his face. He gripped her hips tighter to still her and she groaned in frustration.

She whimpered in pleasure as he began continued licking and sucking—in true earnest now. Barry slid his right hand up her front then around to back to deftly unfasten the brassiere of her lingerie. She moved her arms so he could pull it off of her before tossing it to the side. His hand then began kneading at her breast and she placed her own hand on the other, mimicking the motions of his fingers with her own. She came with a curse in French followed by his name and he held her in place until she’d ridden out all of her aftershocks.

Iris slipped a bit ungracefully off of him as she tried to calm her breathing. She watched as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, blushing slightly at the sight. He looked at her with hungry eyes and Iris felt her heart rate quicken. He moved toward her and just as he was about to kiss her there was a knock at the door.

“Maybe if we’re very still they’ll go away,” Barry whispered, his forehead pressed against her temple. Iris hummed in agreeance, her body still loose and languid.

The knock came again, more urgent this time. Barry groaned as he stretched his arms into the air while swinging his lanky legs off the bed.  Iris turned on her side, pulling the blanket up to her chest, and watched her husband as he pulled his robe on over his lithe form and walked to the door.

“This had better be damn important,” she heard him say to the messenger at the door. Iris chuckled and turned over in bed so that her back was facing him.

She tuned out whatever was being said to her husband and let her mind wander to all the things she’d do with him once he returned to their bed. The smile growing on her face fell when she heard a loud thud followed by a shout of “My lord!”

Iris sat bolt upright and bed and turned to see Barry kneeling on the floor and hyperventilating.

“Barry!” She jumped out of bed and pulled her robe on more out of instinct and habit than modesty. She didn’t care what this messenger saw or knew; she only cared about her husband.

When she approached she shoved the messenger boy out of the way before kneeling down in front of her husband. She took his face in her hands and tilted his head up so that he was forced to look at her.

“Barry,” she whispered, “what’s wrong.” His breathing became more labored as he tried to speak. His eyes were bloodshot and weepy and so wide. Iris had never seen someone look so terrified.

“My,” he took in a large breath followed by several exhales, “my father….”

Iris pulled him to her chest and hugged him before turning her eyes on the messenger, she was sure she looked nearly as crazed as Barry did.

“What’s happened to Henry,” she yelled. It wasn’t his fault, and she knew that, she really did, but she had to yell. Yelling was the only thing that made sense at the moment.

“The king’s been shot, my lady.”


	8. Chapter 8

ENGLAND | SEPTEMBER 1939

 

            The evening of Henry’s funeral, Barry sat in his and Iris’s bedroom staring out the window into the night. It had been a beautiful late summer’s day, which Barry was glad for. It had rained on the day of his mother’s funeral and it did nothing but bring his spirits further down. He was thankful for the sun. He was also thankful for Iris. Odd, how the two things he was thankful for were the literal and metaphorical centers of his world. Iris had been by his side in any and every capacity he needed over the past week. He wasn’t sure how, but she knew what he needed precisely when he needed it. She knew when he needed to be left alone, when he needed to be held, when he needed someone to sit beside him in total silence. If he hadn’t already been so sure that he loved her, this week would have cemented it. Barry could not articulate how much he loved Iris, what she meant to him. It was strange, the moment his father had shown him her picture four months ago Barry felt something stir in his chest—a sensation he, at the time, couldn’t explain. And when he saw her for the first time in June, he felt that same sensation only this time, he knew what it was, how to describe it.

            People often talk of soulmates and true love and describe it as feeling a rush of excitement. That’s what Barry initially thought he felt, but seeing her in person, talking with her, letting the backs of his knuckles gently swipe against the back of her hand gave word to what that feeling truly was: calm. It was a sense of calm that had washed over him. Almost as if some force was telling him, _This is her. This is the one. You can relax, now. You’ve found her. Your lightning rod._

            He didn’t know how he’d ever lived without her.

            At that moment, she came up behind him, sliding her hands up his chest.

            “You startled me a bit,” he whispered. He placed his hands over hers and drew her arms tighter around his body.

            “Sorry, dear.” Her speech was muffled against his back. She nudged him gently until he was facing her and smiled gently, sleepily, up at him. “What were you thinking about?”

            “I was thinking about you.” He pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear before taking the clip that was holding her hair in place out and letting the dark tendrils fall onto her shoulders.

            “What about me,” she asked, pressing her body closer to his as she spoke.

            “How I feel about you.” He was quiet now and leaning toward her to pepper her face with kisses.

            “Tell me,” she whispered back as she dug her fingernails lightly into his back.

            “You know.” His voice was husky and heavy as he spoke. “You must know. You’ve always known.”

            She nuzzled her face into his neck, kissing him there before she spoke. “I want to hear you say it.”

            Barry took her face in his hands and pulled her away from him so that he could look into her eyes. She placed her hands against his chest as she stared back at him.

            “Iris,” how could he tell her? What could he say that would properly articulate how he felt about her? He loved her—yes. Beyond that though, she was his world. She was his stability. She was the soles of his feet. She grounded him. “You’re…everything to me. I love you, Iris. I love you beyond reason and without doubt. I love you without understanding how it’s possible to love someone so much and without question. I love you like you are part of me. My stability, my strength. Iris, you’re my spine. I would collapse without you. I—.”       

            Iris cut him off with a kiss. He smiled against her as she pulled away, leaning her forehead against his.

            “You ramble when you’re nervous. Did you know?” They chuckled together before letting their laughter dribble into silence, the only noise their shallow breaths. “I can’t breathe without you,” she whispered. He moved his hands to her waist and pulled her towards him so they were now chest to chest. “Barry, I can’t describe it. Two languages on my lips and I can’t find a single word that adequately describes how I feel about you…”

            When Barry next spoke, his voice was low and deep, “Show me.”

            They were like teenagers: unable to keep their hands off of each other. She practically ripped off his shirt as he undid the back fastens on her dress before roughly pushing it down. He suckled her neck and palmed her breasts over her brassiere before slamming her back against the wall. She yelped partly in pain and partly in excitement.

            Iris worried for a moment that other people in the palace might hear them. After all, it was fairly early in the evening. People were likely still milling about the hallways.

            _Oh, let them hear._ She thought. _My husband is to be shipped off in two days’ time. Let them all hear what they’re taking away from me._

            They were taking more than her husband, they were taking her pleasure. Her joy. Her laughter. Once he was gone, there would be nothing she could do to stop it, but now, while he was here with her, she wouldn’t let them have it.

            Barry slid his hand over her center above her panties pulling her from her reverie. She sighed and moved her hips in time with his movements.

            “Already wet, are we, Mrs. Allen?” He smirked cockily at her and she grinned back, her heart thrumming in her chest.

            “It’s the effect you have on me, Mr. Allen.” His grin widened at that and he kissed her hard as he continued the motion of his hand.

            “Where do you want it,” he asked against her lips.

            “Here, right here, against the wall. Hard.”

            “Anything you say, Mrs. Allen.” He pulled his hand away from her wetness to undo the buckle of his belt before freeing his cock from his trousers. He pulled her underwear to the side and positioned himself at her entrance before lifting her up and thrusting roughly into her. She let out a cry as he stretched her and threw her head back against the wall. Iris wrapped her legs tightly around his hips pulling him into her. He thrust into her slow and hard as he buried his face in her neck. With every thrust Iris’s moans got louder until she was practically screaming outright. She twisted and ground her hips against him until finally she found her release clenching around him as she came down from her high. Moments later, he came in her, muttering her name on his lips like a prayer.

            _Iris. Iris. Iris._


	9. UPDATE

Hello everyone,

Thanks so much for all of your kind messages. I've just finished my first year of university and haven't been able to write. I kept wanting to come back to this story but couldn't bring myself to for some reason. Your messages have inspired me to continue. Hopefully there'll be a new chapter within the month. I'm going to delete this update a few days before I post the new chapter.

Thanks so much,  
Maz


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